


Dope

by Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)



Series: The Young Ones - Love & Mobsters [13]
Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Drugs, Explicit Language, Gen, Guns, M/M, Murder, Sex workers, Torture, body parts, dead body disposal, drug run, eye-scream, random objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/pseuds/Mercury%20Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeline: November 1985</p><p>Vyvyan and Rory are sent on a simple drug run, which quickly becomes far more complicated than anticipated.</p><p>Songfic...sort-of...you'll see at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dope

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been author-edited for typos and grammar, but has NOT been beta'd!
> 
> Unlike Henchmen, this one does get pretty damn graphic, as you can tell from the tags. You have been warned.
> 
> Special thanks on this one to They Might Be Giants for writing the song which inspired this act of complete madness, and to user Chiasmus on the TMGB wiki for their "hitman" interpretation of the song. That was the starting point that spawned this incredibly complicated, surprisingly difficult to write, fic. XD

## Monday

**[9:27 am]**

A life of crime did odd things to Vyvyan. For one thing, it made him get up at a reasonable hour - which of course, felt like an entirely unreasonable hour - most mornings. This morning was no exception. He tried to get up without waking Rick, but that was typically difficult - Rick was a light sleeper, and they really were crammed pretty tightly into his single bed. This morning was going to be especially difficult, as it turned out he'd curled himself around Rick rather thoroughly in the night, and even the slightest movement was likely to wake him. Still he wanted to try - he really didn't want to disrupt Rick's sleep for one thing, they hadn't got to bed until nearly three last night. And for another, he really didn't want to be waylaid by Rick being Rick first thing this morning; he had something to do. He managed to get his arm out from under Rick's head (a painstakingly slow and patient task), and had just sat up when Rick stirred.

"Mmm, don't go. Where are you going?" he muttered, still half-asleep. He caught Vyvyan's arm as he stood and Vyvyan didn't have the heart to pull away. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Rick's cheek. Rick hummed contentedly, his eyes still closed fast.

"I'm only going downstairs, poof, it's not as if I'm running off forever. Go back to sleep."

"Nooo, stay heeeere," Rick whined, sitting up a bit and wrapping his arms around Vyvyan's waist. Vyvyan felt an odd combination of irritation and affection at this. Affection won out in the end, and he allowed Rick to pull him back to bed. He climbed atop Rick, straddling him and leaning forward to kiss him. Rick opened his eyes and watched him with satisfaction, clearly glad he'd got his way, arms still wrapped tightly around him. Vyvyan tried to sneer at him, but it really came out as more of an affectionate smirk.

"God, you're such a bloody girl. Tell you what, I've got to go downstairs and have a chat with Mike, he's got a job for me. But no matter what it is, I'll come back upstairs before I go out, all right?"

"All right," Rick yawned and released Vyvyan, who rolled off him, but didn't get up quite yet. Rick rolled onto his side and promptly went back to sleep. Vyvyan smiled a genuine smile at him and kissed his temple before getting up, getting dressed, and getting his arse downstairs.

Mike was waiting at the kitchen table, per usual. As was increasingly the case of late, Candi and Lisa flanked him, decorating his shoulders. Vyvyan imagined they made Mike feel a bit more important. That was fine, a man's got an image to uphold after all. Lisa was a bit shorter than Candi, her red hair hanging just below her shoulders, her smile plastered on her face, her clothes elegant and expensive. Candi had recently cut her own hair to just below her ears - Mike preferred it, apparently. They were attractive enough, but they were so _plastic_ \- all smiles and agreement and no thoughts of their own; they weren't exactly being paid to think. Vyvyan wondered if Mike was ever going to get himself a real girlfriend. Then he realized if he could, he probably already would have done. He sat at the table feeling, for the first time, a sort-of strange superiority over Mike in that regard. Despite how uncomfortable it sometimes made him, at least what he and Rick had was _real_.

"Good morning, Vyv. Appreciate your coming to see me like this," Vyvyan thought that was a bit silly - he would have come down to the kitchen eventually either way, "As I'd mentioned yesterday, I've got a job for you. A special, one-of-a-kind job. Now, I can't tell you much of the details in mixed company, this thing's a bit hush-hush. But what I can tell you is this: it'll likely take a few days, you'll be traveling, and if you can pull it off, it's going to earn me, and therefore us, a great deal of respect and status within the organization. I've got a great feeling about this one, Vyv, it's simple, but the potential future benefits are enormous."

Vyvyan shrugged, "Sounds good to me. What have I got to do?"

"You've got a meeting with Balowski at 11:15. He'll be in his office. Do whatever he says. And don't talk to anybody about any of the details, you got that? _Nobody_. This job is the sort of thing that'll make or break us, Vyv. We've got huge potential here. 11:15, don't be even a minute late, you know how important the Boss' time is."

"All right, I got it."

"Good," Mike picked up his paper and set about ignoring him. Vyvyan headed back upstairs, as promised. If he was going to be gone a few days, he wanted to get as much out of the next hour as he could.

*****

**[11:14 am]**

Vyvyan passed his weapon check and made his way into Jerzei's office. He felt as if the weapon check was particularly unnecessary, considering he'd acted as one of Balowski's personal bodyguards on occasion, but he understood Balowski's reasoning. Ever since the Bertolini incident, he'd become a lot more cautious. They'd lost thirteen men in all that day, six dead, seven defected, before Balowski had managed to stem the tide. Bertolini's losses had been far greater, and he'd crawled off into hiding. Vyvyan doubted they'd hear anything from him for a while - though he worried when they _did_ hear from him again, it would be much more trouble.

Balowski's office was surprisingly well-furnished; modern, clean, tasteful. Worlds away from the image of him Vyvyan had formed over the two years as his tenant rather than his employee. Balowski was an expert in obfuscating stupidity. His cover as an Englishman pretending, poorly, to be a Russian immigrant was actually quite effective. No one would suspect that the whole thing was a front for a Russian mafia agent three generations deep who just happened to be an Englishman. He was the last person you'd ever expect to send a hit man to your door; a tiger hiding inside a kitten's skin.The real Balowski was calculating, sharp, and utterly ruthless. He'd had more men tortured and killed in his career than Vyvyan could ever hope to beat up on his own. It was a miracle Mike's gamble had paid off - had Balowski decided not to accept his offer, they'd all have been dead within the hour. After working for and with him for nearly a year and a half now, Vyvyan was surprised to find he respected the man. His business practices were questionable, but efficient, and he had a sense of honor Vyvyan could appreciate.

The door opened and Balowski waved Vyvyan inside, barely looking up from the paperwork on his desk. Vyvyan sat down opposite the desk, awaiting instructions. One did not speak first in a meeting with Balowski; he set the terms, he called the shots, and he told you when you were finished. Balowski appraised him coolly a moment before lighting a cigar and initiating conversation.

"Got a job for you, Vyv."

"I'd figured as much, seeing as I'm here."

Jerzei stopped puffing on his cigar and gave him a _look_. Vyvyan found himself feeling legitimately intimidated.

"Keep up the smart-ass attitude, Basterd, see where it gets you."

'I dare you,' his look said, or perhaps, 'Give me a reason to strike.'

Vyvyan elected to nod rather than speak further; years among thugs had taught him when to shut up. Jerzei nodded as well and seemed satisfied that his point had come across. He went back to his cigar before pulling it out of his mouth and clasping his hands on the desk in front of him.

"You'll be going on a run. Seems Mikey-boy made himself a couple of friends down in Ibeza over the summer. They're in the market for some stock our counterparts in the motherland are interested in unloading. I've selected you for the job because you've got the necessary skills - smarts to make the job run smoothly, brawn for the possibility of things going sour. You'll need another associate - I thought I'd leave his selection up to you."

"Savage," Vyvyan said, practically without thinking, "He's the most qualified and I'd trust him with my life."

Jerzei nodded, "All right then. You and Savage are to report to Pakhan Volkov at this address tonight, 7:00 sharp. You'll get the details from him."

He pulled a card from a small box on the desk and handed it to Vyvyan. Vyvyan looked at it - "THE CARDINAL" it said "CASINO & GENTLEMAN'S CLUB"

"That's one of Paul's, isn't it?" Paul Balowski was the cousin who owned The Crimson, the metal club Vyvyan bounced at with semi-regularity.

Jerzei nodded, pulled a thick, yellow legal pad from his desk and started writing, "They'll be expecting you. The pakhan will be in the Royal Lounge, they'll know to take you straight to him."

He tore the paper he'd been writing on off the legal pad, folded it, and put in in an envelope. He sealed it and handed it to Vyvyan, "Give him this letter of introduction. The Wolf is a cautious man, he won't speak to you until he's sure I've sent you, no matter what his own men tell him. I don't suppose I need to tell you to be on your best behavior?"

Vyvyan shook his head. Volkov - The Wolf - was _Balowski's_ boss, the head of London's entire Russian mafia. He was rumored to be rather eccentric - and deceptively dangerous. Vyvyan was starting to have somewhat of a sinking feeling about all this.

"Good. Fuck off, I've got work to do." Jerzei went back to his paperwork and Vyvyan stood, and turned to go.

"Vyv," Jerzei called without looking up. Vyvyan froze. "Don't fuck this up."

"No worries," Vyvyan said with far more calm in his voice than the rest of his body. Coming from Balowski, that wasn't only an order, or even a warning; it was a threat, and Balowski made good on his threats, every time. Vyvyan clenched his jaw as he walked out the door. He hoped to hell this wouldn't be his last job.

*****

**[6:58 pm]**

The Cardinal was a small, unassuming building near the West End. It was squat, concrete, nearly windowless, a single red, neon bird adorning its small doorway. "Ignore me," its exterior said, "Move along, nothing to see here." For those who knew how to look, it was quite blatantly a mob front.

"This place don't seem like much," Rory said as they approached the building, "S'posed to be some sort of fancy casino, I'd expect something a little flashier."

"Flash is for the inside," Vyvyan said as he knocked on the door, "Outside's to keep the pigs guessing and the public disinterested."

The little window on the door slid open and a pair of unfriendly eyes peered at them.

"Password," the voice belonging to the eyes said gruffly.

"Isotope," Vyvyan said - it had been written on the back of the card.

The window slammed shut and, after the sound of a heavy lock disengaging, the door swung open. Vyvyan and Rory glanced at each other and headed inside.

The entryway led into a hallway with a set of plain, closed doors sporadically placed along either wall. The doorman, a pure gorilla of a man, gestured to the end of the hall with one hand - the other clutching a semi-automatic rifle, thankfully pointed at the ceiling.

"Down the stairs," he said, and it seemed 'gruff' was his default tone, "They're expecting ya."

"How'd you know it was us?" Rory said, surprised. The doorman gave him a meaningful look.

"If you think you ain't been watched, followed, catalogued and filed away since the moment you joined up, you got another think comin'."

Rory swallowed and Vyvyan nodded toward the stairs.

"Let's go. Can't be late."

The stairs headed down for a long time, the walls around them dimly lit and narrow. It occurred to Vyvyan, as they moved further and further down the steep, dark, claustrophobic stairwell, that no one would survive a fall from the top of the stairs to the bottom. He wondered if that was purposeful. The sounds of the casino grew steadily louder as they approached - slot machines and roulette wheels barely audible below indistinct music. The scent of grilled meats and cigarette smoke greeted them about twenty steps from the open doorway at the bottom of the stairs.

The doorway opened into an absolutely massive room. What sort of place _was_ this? How had it even been _built_? The room, which included doorways to other rooms at various spots along its edges, had to be at _least_ three times the size of the building above. Lights and mirrors amplified the space even further, and the sound of the place was near deafening. A stage sat along the wall opposite them, exotic dancers writhing and grinding to pounding bass. The carpet, dull and red along the stairwell, melted into a dizzying, multicolored abstract and stretched on seemingly forever. This wasn't a Gentleman's Club, it was a bloody Vegas casino hidden away beneath the streets of London.

Rory and Vyvyan stood gobsmacked in the doorway, jaws agape, eyes wide and disbelieving. The sight was so overwhelming, neither noticed the velvet ropes and well-dressed guards standing mere feet in front of them. One of the guards leaned forward and snapped his fingers in their faces. They snapped out of their trance and looked up at him. Even Rory had to look up, and he was a good five inches taller than Vyvyan.

"First time?" the guard said, smirking, "Of course it is - reaction's always the same. You'd be surprised what you can get used to, I barely notice it anymore. Stay right there, Vic's going to take you back."

He whistled at a door along the same wall as the stairs, it opened, and another massive gentleman in a finely pressed suit approached them. He didn't look nearly as friendly as the guard who had spoken to them.

"Come on then," he barked, and the guard opened the velvet rope. They followed - Vic had started walking as soon as he'd stopped talking, and they had to walk fast to keep up. He led them through rows and rows of slot machines, between small cocktail tables occasionally littered with happy, drunken men, directly past the stage where a stripper danced in a genie costume, brandishing finger cymbals she clearly had no intention of playing. They reached a pair of double doors, where even more guards stood, stone-faced and patient. He stopped and gestured to the guards, who proceeded to pat Rory and Vyvyan down. One of them paused when he got to Rory's jacket pocket, unzipped it, and pulled out a sleek switchblade. He raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" he said, surprisingly congenial.

Rory shrugged, "Always keep it on me."

The guard eyed him while he put the knife in his breast pocket, like a pen, "You'll get it on your way out."

Rory shrugged again, but he clearly wasn't happy about it. The guards opened the doors and ushered the two into the room beyond. The doors slammed shut and again the two had to adjust to their surroundings.

They stood at the head of a banquet table, decked out to every corner as if awaiting a dinner party for at least a dozen people. Two more guards stood along the opposite wall, on either side of a relatively benign-looking old man in an extremely well-made suit. He was fat, but not excessively so, certainly not enough to indicate that the entire feast was clearly his - there was no one else seated at the table. The man stood and smiled warmly - except there was nothing warm in the smile. The two felt as though they were gazelle being grinned down by a crocodile. He waved at them to approach, and they did so, with trepidation.

"Gentlemen," the man said, in a surprisingly thick Russian accent, "Join me, I've just sat down to dinner."

They got to the end of the table, and each took a seat on either side of Volkov, whose smile dropped just as suddenly as it occurred.

"I take it you have business for me?" he looked back and forth at each of them with a dire expression. Vyvyan reached for the envelope in his back pocket and the guards went for their guns the moment he reached behind him. He pulled it out slowly and held it up at them. They eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then dropped their guard. Vyvyan handed the envelope to Volkov without a word.

Volkov opened the envelope and read through the letter with a bored expression. Then he closed it, and that chilling, predatory smile returned.

"So, gentlemen, you are Balowski's boys, yes? I have heard good things about you, truly, especially _you_ , young man." He looked meaningfully at Vyvyan and Vyvyan blushed.

"Thank you, sir," he said quietly, and Volkov laughed. His laugh wasn't any more disarming than his smile.

"No formalities here, gentlemen! We are businessmen discussing business, nothing more. So let us not beat around the bush - you will be going on a run for us, yes?"

This clearly wasn't a real question, so the two said nothing. Volkov lifted the lid of a chafing dish sitting to his right. Steam billowed from the dish and Volkov took a big whiff before reaching in with a pair of tongs and pulling out a whole lobster. He placed it on the plate in front of him and smiled at them again.

"Your boyevik, what is his name…Michael. He has done a service to us, yes?"

He picked up a pair of lobster crackers and cut right through the center of the body. Bits of lobster shell went flying, and Vyvyan had to dodge a piece headed toward his eye. Volkov laughed again as he pulled the tail away from the body.

"He has made us a new in-road to Spain. A group of gentlemen from Barcelona, they are in the market for a new supply of opium - a commodity associates of ours, another operation in the motherland, have no shortage of."

He snapped his fingers and his guards headed down the table to retrieve various items.

"The Spaniards have all the refining facilities necessary, they need only the raw product, yes? We shall supply it to them. They would like a sample of the merchandise prior to settling on a final deal, and they will pay well for such a sample. So-"

The guards returned with a bowl of what appeared to be whipping cream, a salt shaker, a small knife, and a strange cylindrical object about the size of a fizzy drink can with a stem poking out of the top. Volkov smiled in delight as these objects reached him.

The guards took up their former positions and Volkov reached for the cylindrical object. He opened it at the top. Vyvyan and Rory shared an exasperated glance - when was he going to get to the _point_?

"So," he said again, "This is what shall happen."

He poured the cream into the cylinder and sprinkled some salt into it. He pulled the salt shaker away and inspected it a moment.

"Anatoli," he said, and the guard to his right approached, "Is this table salt?"

"Yes, pakhan," he said in a low, quiet tone.

"And what did I request after the last time?"

"Sea salt, pakhan," he was growing pale.

"And why is there table salt in my hand?"

"Your supplier was unable to procure the sea salt in time, pakhan."

Volkov considered this. Anatoli visibly clenched and unclenched his jaw. Volkov sighed a resigned sigh.

"How many children does this supplier have?"

"Four, pakhan," Anatoli said, in a less-than-collected voice.

Volkov frowned. He set the salt down firmly.

"He has three."

Anatoli swallowed, "Yes, pakhan, he has three."

"You will take care of it. Send Victor in."

"Yes, pakhan," Anatoli headed straight for the door. Vic, the man who had ushered them in, replaced him, walking quickly to the spot where Anatoli had stood. Volkov smiled at Vyvyan and Rory again, shrugging.

"We shall make do with what we have, yes?" He continued shaking salt into the cream.

"A wonderful little invention, this," he said as he closed the top again and held the cylinder in front of him, "A personal butter churn. Delightful little gadget, no need to buy inferior butter again." He began churning the cream as he spoke.

"So," he said for a third time, "This is what we shall do. Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, you will meet two of my men at the address provided."

The guard who wasn't Vic handed Vyvyan a file folder, and Vyvyan opened it. He was greeted by a photo of a blond, posh twit with a mustache, in an ascot and a tweed jacket, grinning at the camera like it was his own personal fashion magazine ad, and a scowling mountain of a man in a bowler hat and trench coat standing behind him. An address was written on the back.

"My nephew, Nikolai, is one of them - you will treat him with respect, but you will also keep an eye on him. My nephew is a child, a grown child, and he is prone to flights of fancy. The other, Martin Rostov, is his personal bodyguard. You will help Rostov keep Nikki in line. Rostov is a brilliant strategist and scholar - he can act as translator should you need him to. You will take Nikki's personal plane to Barcelona and meet our contact at this address."

Indeed, the next thing in the file was directions to an address in Spain. Say what you would about this man, he was certainly organized. Volkov stopped churning and opened the churn. He picked up the small knife and scraped out a small butter wedge. He tasted it, nodded in satisfaction, and spread it over the lobster tail - which was surprisingly still warm enough to melt it almost immediately. Vyvyan couldn't tell if the plate was heated, or if the lobster just didn't dare cool until Volkov wanted it to. Volkov picked up the tail with his bare hand and began munching on it while he spoke, occasionally spreading more butter onto the tail. He spoke with his mouth full.

"Our contact will give you twenty-thousand rubles," Vyvyan blanched and Rory nearly choked on his own breath, "You will guard the money with your lives. From there you will fly in to Minsk, where you will meet your contact, Sergei Romanov, in the hotel described. Call the number provided when you arrive, and he will meet you at your room. You will deliver the money to him, at which time he will rendezvous with his associates - our men in the motherland. You will wait at the hotel until he returns."

Vyvyan turned the page and was met with a photograph of an angry-looking man, paper clipped to a hotel's letterhead. Volkov finished with the lobster tail and handed the plate behind him. Vic took it and put it on a sideboard he was standing next to. He brought back a butcher block with a selection of breads and cheeses atop it. He set the butcher block down next to Volkov, who tittered slightly as he began spreading various cheeses on various breads and sampling them without finishing anything.

"In precisely three hours, Romanov will return with the appropriate package, along with another delivery - fifty-thousand pesetas. You will take both back to Barcelona and deliver it to our contacts."

The other guard traveled back down to the other end of the table, clutching an ice cube tray. Just what all did those guards _have_ back there? He broke the ice onto a platter, opened a small chest, and placed several objects atop the ice. He squeezed what appeared to be a wedge of lemon over it, and returned with a plate of oysters. He set them in front of Volkov, who nodded. The guard reassumed his position. Volkov smiled at them yet again, and offered up the plate.

"A dozen oysters on the half-shell. A delightful treat. May I tempt you, gentlemen?"

Vyvyan and Rory shrugged at each other, and each took one. Volkov ate one, tossing it back like a shot, and the two took the hint and did the same. Vyvyan nearly vomited, but managed to choke it down. He looked over at Rory and saw his face said he didn't think it was half bad. Vyvyan shot him a disbelieving look and Rory shrugged. Volkov continued.

"You will use the fifty-thousand to purchase whatever stock the Spaniards already have on-hand and transport it back to London for distribution along our networks. Do you gentlemen enjoy sarsaparilla?"

This last question was not particularly differentiated from what he'd been saying before, and it took both of them a moment to realize he'd asked anything. Vyvyan shrugged, "Dunno." Rory shook his head, "Ain't never tried it."

"Never, my boy? Vic, three sarsaparillas, immediately. You are in for a treat." His eyes sparkled, and it occurred to Vyvyan, for not the first time during this conversation, that Volkov was simultaneously insanely cunning and simply insane. Vic delivered the drinks as ordered, popping the caps off three brown bottles and handing each out. He didn't look particularly happy about playing waiter, but then he hadn't looked particularly happy from the moment they'd seen him. Vyvyan took a sip - hm, not bad, not bad at all. Sweet, bubbly, clearly a kid's drink - he wondered how it would mix with lighter fluid. He took his lighter out of his pocket, popped it open, poured the contents into the bottle and swirled it a bit. He tasted it. Rather good, actually. He was going to have to remember that one. Volkov sipped his own drink and smiled another jovial, terrifying smile at them.

"From the time you fly out tomorrow morning, you will have four days. An efficient man will finish it in two. If the package has not been delivered to Barcelona by Friday noon…there will be consequences." This last bit was delivered in the same cheerful, conversational tone he'd been using all along. That made it all the more frightening.

"So, gentlemen. This is the run. Should you have any trouble, you are to contact your boyevik - this is _his_ run, after all, he has been apprised of all proceedings, and any issues shall be dealt with by him directly. Beyond your traveling companions, your boyevik and yourselves, you will discuss the details of this job with no one. The stakes are high, the cargo is precious, and the Italians, they are always listening. Do we understand each other?"

The two nodded and Volkov shot them yet another grin, "Any questions, gentlemen?"

Vyvyan shook his head, and Rory spoke up, "Yeh…could I have another one of them oysters?" Vyvyan shot him a horrified look, but to his great relief, Volkov laughed indulgently.

"Take two, my boy," he said, holding the platter out to him, "Take two!" Rory did.

Volkov reached below him, under the table, and pulled out a half-full poker caddy with various chips. "Take this, gentlemen, take advantage of the facilities. You have quite a job awaiting you tomorrow, you should take tonight to relax. And you should know, the girls accept chips as currency." He winked at them. They made a polite, but swift exit, taking the poker caddy with them. When they got through the double doors, they let out the breaths they'd been holding for a while, and laughed a bit at each other. The guard who'd taken Rory's knife smiled at them as he handed it back.

"You made it out! How was your first meeting with The Wolf? Did he make you eat oysters? He made _me_ eat oysters."

Vyvyan nodded, making a face at the memory, "I practically had to sit on my hands to keep from taking his food away so he could finish a fucking thought."

The guard laughed, "Yeah, enough time around the pakhan will do that. Did he give you chips? Ah, yep, there they are. You really can use 'em around here, you know. You should enjoy 'em while you can, he only ever gives 'em to blokes he sends on missions they're somewhat unlikely to come back from." He laughed louder at their paling faces, "I'm takin' the piss, he gives 'em to everybody. Go enjoy your night."

They each breathed a sigh of relief and managed small smiles as they walked away. They looked at each other and laughed again.

"The fuck sort of organization are we roped into?" Rory said, still laughing. Vyvyan shrugged.

"The sort we're in for life, I suppose," he said, chuckling, "Let's see about spending some of those chips." He took the caddy from Rory and eyeballed it, "Fuck poker and slot machines, I want a lap dance."

*****

**[10:45 pm]**

The lap dance was lovely. Very lovely, in fact. Her name was Misty, and she was a tall brunette with deep, brown eyes, a seductive smile, and fantastic breasts. Rory's, a petite blonde with a perfect hourglass, was named Mandy. Vyv and Rory liked Misty and Mandy's services so much, they went ahead and got another once they were finished.

During Rory's second, he said, quietly, "You got any rooms or anythin' where I'm allowed to touch you back?" He winked at Mandy. She looked down at the poker caddy and sized up how much they had left. Then she winked back and whispered something into his ear. Rory grinned. Mandy stood and looked over at Misty, "They've got enough for both of us. You working extra tonight?"

Misty shrugged, "Sure."

Mandy took Rory's hand and he stood to follow her. Misty stood to join them. She took Rory's arm and started to lead him away, then looked back at Vyvyan, "You coming?"

Vyvyan smiled, but he shook his head, "I'd love to, believe me, but not tonight."

Rory laughed, "Sorry ladies, it'll just be you and me. Time was, Vyv was up for anything, but he's no fun anymore. He's got to get home to the wife."

"Fuck you, arseface," Vyvyan shot him an irritated look. He got up and headed for the doorway.

"You'd better be on time tomorrow," he called over his shoulder while still in earshot, "If you fuck this up, I'm going to track you down and kill you before they can."

"Oi, Vyv!" Rory called, and Vyvyan stopped and looked back at him. Rory was grinning from ear to ear, "Thanks for bringin' me along! 'S gonna be a blast!"

Vyvyan grinned back at him before heading up the stairs. It stayed with him all the way home - this probably _was_ going to be a blast.

* * *

## Tuesday

**[9:50 am]**

The house they'd been sent to was massive. Acres of property massive. Probably employed a small city massive. Once Vyvyan had parked out front, it took them a full five minutes to walk to the back of the house and the airstrip beyond. They saw their traveling companions as they reached the small plane. Nikki and Rostov stood at the plane, waiting patiently. Rostov held a large, black bag, nearly as large as himself, slung over his shoulder. As they got closer, Vyvyan felt his optimism from the night before wane somewhat.

Perhaps it was that Nikki, their supposed pilot, was wearing what appeared to be safari gear, a Russian hat and swimming goggles. The goggles were stretched across his forehead, pushing the hat back and causing it to teeter precariously on the back of his head. Rostov, standing beside him, looked nothing like his picture at all. Granted, he was large and intimidating, but he wore a kind, friendly smile and waved as they approached. Vyvyan noticed he was leaning on a sturdy walking stick with an ornately carved, white marble handle in the shape of a lion's head. It was impressive, but also worrisome - if Rostov was supposed to be another pair of fists, why did he need a walking stick?

"Morning!" Nikki said in a cheerful, nasal drawl, and Vyvyan instantly hated him, "You chaps look ready to embark on our grand journey, eh?"

"S'pose you could say that," Rory said, eyeing Nikki as though he wasn't sure if he was being serious.

"Don't mind Nikki, he's an enthusiastic fellow," Rostov said, and they detected just the hint of an accent.

"What's with the cane?" Vyvyan said, not interested in pleasantries this early in the morning.

Rostov smiled at him, looked down, and lifted his right pant leg to reveal a wooden leg, "Lost it years ago. Suits me fine, but this little beauty keeps me more upright," he patted the cane.

"Ain't you supposed to be his guard?" Rory said, "How d'you get around fast enough to guard anything?"

Rostov smiled a smile reminiscent of Volkov, "Don't need to run around to snap somebody's neck clean off their shoulders." He held up his giant, meaty hands; Rory and Vyvyan got the picture.

Vyvyan couldn't resist his curiosity any longer, "Why the goggles?"

"Ah, it's a tradition of mine, I always wear them flying. Rather like a flying ace, eh? 'Let's take down the Jerries' and all that?" he laughed, a snorting chuckle that reminded Vyvyan of Rick somewhat - but infinitely less endearing. That sinking feeling was falling faster and faster.

Nikki reached into his pocket and pulled out several small, cloth drawstring bags. He handed one each to Vyvyan, Rory and Rostov, and put the remaining two back into his pocket. Vyvyan looked down at the bag. Occasionally, something moved about inside it.

"What's this?" Rory said, opening the bag and taking a peek inside.

"Mexican jumping beans," Nikki said, more enthused than ever, "A celebration of our Spanish cousins to the South!"

Vyvyan furrowed his brow, "But…they're _Mexican_ jumping beans."

"Yes?"

"We're going to _Spain_."

"Yes?"

"It's a completely different country."

Nikki stared at him blankly for a few moments before breaking back into a grin, "Ah, I see your confusion! They both speak Spanish, you see. I'm not sure if you're aware, but Spain, in fact, _colonized_ Mexico, so these _do_ actually _belong_ to the Spanish. The concept might be a bit complicated for the lower classes, I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have."

It was Vyvyan's turn to stare blankly. Internally, he swallowed the urge to pop Nikki's head in both hands like a grape. Externally, he shrugged.

"All right then," he said, attempting to change the subject, "Are we heading out now, or…?"

"Ah yes! We should get a move-on, wot? Chop-chop, let's not keep our greasy little friends waiting! Everyone aboard!" Nikki gestured up the stairs and into the plane, and the other three shuffled aboard. Vyvyan and Rory both gave Nikki something of a glare as they passed. Nikki smiled obliviously at them in return. Once inside, they realized the plane, while large enough to seat about a dozen people, was small enough for the passengers to have direct contact with the pilot.

This was going to be a long flight.

*****

**[11:12 am]**

"Take a look at this," Rostov said, for at least the tenth time in an hour. Vyvyan was afraid to lean across the aisle again. He'd already learned about a flower in Peru with magical healing properties, a secret organization in Ecuador that has apparently been performing human sacrifices in order to ensure rain in the rainforest, a form of divination involving rose quartz, various grasses, and a tuning fork tuned precisely to an F#, a demonstration on the reason it's known as a "magic marker" (it apparently involves vision quests), and proof positive that the Loch Ness monster was, in fact, the last living dragon.

Nikki was supposed to be the eccentric one. From what Vyvyan could tell, he was _clearly_ the saner of the pair, and that was _saying something._ At least Nikki had remained relatively quiet the majority of the trip so far, occupied with flying the damn plane. Rostov, on the other hand, had shut up a total of about seven seconds, and not all in one go. Vyv was beginning to miss the quiet sanctity of a day spent listening to Rick's poetry.

Rory had been pacing the aisle, bored shitless, so when Rostov spoke up, he sat next to him and engaged.

"Oh god," Vyvyan said, "Don't _encourage_ him."

Rostov laughed - it appeared the more irritated Vyv got, the more jovial it made Rostov. It was becoming somewhat of a feedback loop.

"You got something else to do?" Rory said, and Vyvyan rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat. No, in fact, he had _nothing_ to do other than listen to some mad gangster engage in the most inane conversation imaginable. Lovely.

"Look here," Rostov said, holding out the book he was reading for Rory to see, "You see this? _This_ is going to make me a very rich man."

Rory leaned in and peered at a page, "It's a calendar."

"A ha!" Rostov said in triumph, "That's where you're wrong, you see. It's an _almanac_. The Gambler's Almanac, Special Edition, published 1974. In here is everything the discerning gambler will ever need for a sure bet - that's why it's so difficult to come by. Bought this one from the man himself - Gregory Fortune, psychic extraordinaire.

"Seriously?" Vyvyan couldn't take it anymore, "A psychic named _Fortune_? You're having us on, Martin, there's no way you could possibly believe any of this."

Rostov grinned at him, "The least believable world facts are the most true, Vyvyan my lad. Reality is unrealistic." Vyvyan only stared at him. The man was entirely mad, there was no other explanation.

Rostov held the book out for Vyvyan to see, "In here is the result of every boxing match, wrestling match, horse race, World Cup final, Wimbledon final and even the location and gold medal winners of every Olympics, through the end of the century. Follow this guide, and you're guaranteed a win on your next bet, with only a 10% margin of error."

"Lemme see that," Rory took the book and flipped through it, "5th October, 1997. Race winners: 'Havin' a Ball', 'Good Lovin'', 'No News', 'What a Guy'. Huh. Don't say nothing about _what_ race or _where_."

"That's the beauty of it," Rostov said, taking the book back and patting it confidently, "It'd be cheating to hand you all the details. You've got to do the leg work yourself."

"AUGH!" Vyvyan screamed, and the plane lurched a moment, having clearly startled Nikki, "SHUT UP! If you keep on with this nonsense, I'm going to chuck you out a bloody window!"

Rostov smiled patiently, "Can't do that. These windows are specially made, stronger even than ordinary plane windows. Triple reinforced plexiglass _and_ safety glass, bulletproof, can withstand pressure of up to 200,000 psi - you couldn't _muster_ enough force to break 'em."

"We're about to bloody find out," Vyvyan muttered, but he sat back in his seat again. He tried his best to tune Rostov out as he explained the proper usage of Druidic stones and their relationship to time travel to an enthralled Rory. Instead, Vyvyan decided to have a look in the bag of "provisions" Rostov had thrust into his hands shortly before leaving. It was a huge, black duffel bag, stuffed to the gills. "What's in here?" Vyv had asked, and Rostov had winked at him, "Everything a man in our line of work could possibly need," he'd replied. Vyvyan had doubted it at the time, and after an hour of listening to the man's ramblings, he doubted it even more strongly. Still, he did want to know what the bag contained, and it wasn't as if he had anything better to do. So he pulled it out from under his seat and opened it.

The bag was indeed stuffed to the gills, and not organized in the slightest. Everything seemed to be crammed in as best it would fit - and occasionally whether it fit or not. Vyvyan felt he had to pull objects out at random just to get a handle on any of it - looking directly into it was making him a bit dizzy.

There were the usual things at first - a rather large bowie knife, a length of sturdy rope, a set of fake documents with places to affix pictures, a shaving kit, a disguise kit. But then the more interesting objects began emerging. A well-sealed, steel vial that appeared to have quite thick walls. It was very, _very_ cold, and its label proclaimed it to be "liquid nitrogen". Rostov glanced over to him.

"Had that specially made. It won't explode on you…but be careful with it." Vyvyan wasn't sure whether to believe that, but he set it back into the bag with great care, regardless.

Next out was a hand grenade. Vyvyan grinned - he hoped he'd have a chance to use it. A magazine for a semi-automatic pistol. A semi-automatic pistol. A length of piano wire. A roll of common, household cellophane. A jar of pesticide. A small, black, pear-shaped object Vyvyan couldn't readily identify. It was bumpy, but somehow also smooth, and firm. Another sort of grenade? No, it looked as if it had once had a _stem_.

"What is this?" Vyvyan held it up, fascinated.

Rostov looked at him, "It's an avocado."

Vyvyan paused and thought, staring at it. Wasn't that a type of fruit?

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with an avocado?"

"They're very healthy. All sorts of vitamins. Keeps your joints limber. Don't eat that one just yet, it hasn't ripened enough. It should be perfect in a couple of days."

Vyvyan stared at him. He stared back at the avocado. He stared back at Rostov. He looked over at Rory.

"Am I mad, or is he? I really can't tell anymore."

Rory shrugged, "You know anybody in this business who ain't mad?"

Vyvyan considered a moment.

"No," he said at last, resigned, "I suppose not." At the very least, it appeared that _everyone_ in the _entire_ London Russian mafia, from the head honcho down to the field grunts, was completely potty. He wondered what that said about him. He tossed the avocado back into the bag and stared out the window the rest of the flight.

*****

**[8:17 pm]**

The bonfire raged, the music boomed, and all along the little private beach on the shores of Barcelona, behind the mansion of a very rich mob family, there was revelry and laughter and a great deal of rather violent noises. These Spaniards sure knew how to have a good time.

Rory and Gabriel, the man they'd handed the money to when they'd arrived, were shooting holes into a large boulder along the shoreline with various firearms and laughing uproariously each time another chunk fell into the sea. Vyvyan was down by the bar, teaching Gabriel's men how to drink like a proper London punk. They all took a shot and whooped and hollered as they slammed down their glasses. Next to them sat the pitcher Vyvyan had filled with a mixture of rum, gin, tequila and gasoline. The men seemed to love it - that had been their fifth shot each. Rostov was by the fire, having engaged a small group in a drunken lecture on evidence that Columbus was, in fact, a spy hired by the French monarchy to infiltrate the Spanish and Italian navies, and the ways in which this information linked directly to the Kennedy assassination. More than one of the men had started taking notes. Nikki and two others had managed to keep themselves occupied by watching the jumping beans move about in their hands and tossing them into the fire to hear them pop when they'd tired of them.

"Oi, Vyv!" Rory called, "A couple blokes over here got some nitrous! Got a whole tank and a mask and everything, c'mere!"

Vyvyan stumbled in his general direction. As he passed him, Nikki stood and, just as unstably, joined him.

"I say," he said, and even drunk, Vyvyan bristled, "What's nitrous then?"

"Nitrous oxide," Vyvyan slurred, "Laughing gas. If you can breathe enough of it without passing out entirely, it's quite a trip. Don't tell me the upper classes don't huff nitrous, half of you are bloody doctors, and more than half of you are out of your bloody gourds on anything you can get your hands on at any given time."

"Sorry old chap, never heard of it. Might I have a go?"

Vyvyan shrugged and kept walking, "'S not even mine. Ask the Spaniards."

Nikki did ask, and they let him have some - and he promptly passed out after one good huff. The rest of the group laughed heartily and got right back to huffing properly. Once they'd had enough, they all wandered back to the fire, talking and laughing, hanging on one-another to stay upright. They had a few more shots. One of the men produced what appeared to be a banjolin and began playing and singing romantic songs to no one in-particular. It actually suited the music playing through the giant speakers that seemed to have permanent residence along the beach.

"Are you just making that up?" Rory asked, and the man laughed.

"No, no, that song? That's my music, it's my life's work. This is the backing track to the song that's gonna' make me rich. Listen," he went back to singing. Rory was far too drunk to even remotely keep his focus on any one thing for too long. He pulled out his wallet.

"Look," he said, leaning over to the man on the other side of him, "Look, look, 's my autograph from Julian Cope. Man's a fucking lunatic, I love him. Look, right there."

"Fuck, Rory," Vyvyan rolled his eyes and nearly rolled his head with it, "Do you have to break that thing out every time you get a little smashed? Nobody bloody cares, nobody even barely knows who the bastard is. Your taste in music is utterly bizarre, I've come to accept that, but you can't expect anyone to muster the same enthusiasm you've got for obscure bollocks nobody's ever heard of."

"Don't you go…don't you…" he stared off for a moment before breaking into a grin, "What was I sayin'?"

"I haven't got the slightest idea," Vyvyan said, barely propping himself up on his elbow, "I need a piss."

He got up, after a few agonizing moments of trying to find his legs, nearly fell into the fire, righted himself, and wandered out toward the sea to add a bit of water. When he was finished, he sort-of sat, sort-of fell over, backwards onto the sand and stared up at the sky. He smiled to himself. This was fantastic. What a night! The first leg of the deal had gone off without a hitch, Gabriel and his men were a riot, and the sky was fucking beautiful out here. It was worth sitting through a few hours of Nikki and Rostov for this sort of experience. If Russia was going to treat them half as well as Spain, they were in for an easier and more enjoyable run than he'd originally anticipated.

* * *

## Wednesday

**[somewhere around sunset]**

Rays of orange light from the setting sun beamed through the smoke still hanging in the air, along with the dust from the bullets sprayed through the plaster walls. Rory dragged the fucker who'd burst in on them, bullets flying, into the bathroom, blood practically pouring from his arm with every heave. He pulled his knife out of the fucker's body one last time - ten stabs or so seemed to have been sufficient, he wasn't fighting anymore. He grimaced and grasped at his arm - it hurt like hell. He knew he'd be fine, but still - fucking _ouch_. At least he knew Vyv'd probably have some sort of painkiller handy. It was a useful thing, having a best friend who was also an aspiring doctor. But he'd have to wait, Vyv was a bit occupied at the moment.

"WELL I SHOULD FUCKING WELL HOPE SO!" he screamed into the phone, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU BASTARDS PLAYING AT? ARE WE ON THE SAME BLOODY SIDE OR NOT? …Yeah. …Yeah, okay. Fine, hurry it the fuck up!. I want leads on this bastard, give me everything you've got, I'll track him down myself. …Good. …Good, fifteen minutes, fine. …No, no we'll meet in the lobby. I trust you'd understand my hesitation to allow another fucking surprise. …Right. …Right, okay. Rory'll head down, I've got to inform headquarters. …Yeah. …Look, apologies don't particularly mean shit to me at this point, get your arses down here and fix this, then we'll see about which of you fuckers I'm going to be punching in the fucking face."

Vyvyan slammed the receiver down and sat on the now torn-up bed, putting his head in his hands. Well, at least they weren't dead, that was something. No money, no drugs, a bullet each and a corpse in the bathroom, but at least they weren't fucking dead. Yet. He rooted around for his black bag, thankful he'd thought to bring it along. He dug out a roll of gauze, a pair of needle-nose pliers he'd sterilized to use as tweezers, a length of surgical wire and a needle, some alcohol wipes, a small bottle of codeine and a considerably larger bottle of penicillin. He was particularly grateful Neil had suggested that one, considering it would likely be a while before he could even sterilize his own and Rory's bullet wounds properly. He pulled his jeans off, painfully, and tended to the alarmingly large hole in his thigh while Rory took care of the bastard who'd shot them. He was lucky - it didn't seem like the bullet had hit anything major. Hopefully after he'd sewn himself up, he'd stop bleeding after a while. He didn't have quite enough gauze to cover more than a day-or-so's worth of blood, certainly not enough for the both of them. He'd tend to Rory in a moment.

He couldn't believe it. All the way here without a hitch, and now this. He hoped to hell the pigs in this country were more likely to ignore gunfire than the ones back home. He thought it was likely to be ignored - this area didn't exactly seem like the sort with a neighborhood watch, and the hotel owner was supposedly an ally. Who even knew anymore? At least the _rest_ of Sergei's associates seemed willing to help. It didn't appear, just yet, to have entirely been a setup. Just one man trying to fuck off with the money, it seemed.

He was glad Nikki and Rostov had stayed at a separate hotel - the last thing he would have needed was to have to explain to Volkov how he'd let his nephew get killed. Still, this was a complete fucking mess.

Rory came out of the bathroom covered in far more blood than had probably come from his own arm. Looked like the bathroom was going to be a bitch to clean. Good thing Sergei's associates had promised to clean up. Rory sat down next to Vyv and hung his arms over his knees, his head bowed.

"Well, fuck," he said, and Vyvyan breathed half a laugh, reaching for his medical equipment.

"Let me get to that arm before you pass out, I need you downstairs to meet them in a few minutes. I've…" he sighed, "…got to give Mike a call."

Rory grunted in empathy. That wasn't going to be an easy conversation. Their fault or no, the money was gone, the job wasn't looking particularly rosy at the moment, and Mike was not going to be happy about it.

*****

**[6:44 pm]**

Rory headed out the door, and Vyvyan held back a moment before picking up the receiver. He really wasn't looking forward to this conversation, but he knew it would have to happen eventually and sooner was better than later, considering the circumstances. He sighed, picked it up, and started dialing.

"Hello?" he never thought Neil's voice would be a welcome sound, but after the past two days, he was glad to hear anything that sounded remotely normal.

"Neil, it's me. Put Mike on, it's urgent."

"Oh, hi Vyv! You're in luck, he's just come through the door. Mike! Vyvyan on the phone for you!"

There was a bit of a pause.

"Yeah."

Great. Sounded like Mike was already in a bad mood.

"Michael…there's a problem."

Silence. Then an exasperated sigh, "Lay it on me."

"We got to Minsk all right, got to the drop-off point, got the money to Romanov, waited at the hotel as planned…no Romanov. He was supposed to meet us twelve hours ago. Nothing. He's double-crossed us."

"That's quite a leap, what led you to that conclusion? How do you know he's not just been waylaid?"

"Folks who've been waylaid tend not to send hit-men after you. Fucker burst right into our hotel room and tried to blow our heads off. Rory had to stab him in the neck."

More silence.

"We're going to track Romanov down," Vyvyan tried to sound reassuring, but to his own ears, he just sounded desperate, "We're going to get it back. He just fucked over his own people, they aren't any happier about it than we are. They're helping us get rid of the body of the fucker who just tried to kill us. The job isn't completely fucked, we can salvage this if we can take Sergei down and get the money back. It just…might take a few more hours than planned."

"I did make myself clear before we started, yeah?" Vyvyan could practically hear Mike pinching the bridge of his nose, "You were clear on how important this mission was, yeah? That this is the run of my fucking career, that this fucking run is going to make or fucking break us, yeah?" Mike was getting increasingly aggressive with every word, though not any louder, "That was made fucking clear to you, was it not?"

"Yeah," Vyvyan felt like he was getting bawled out for coming home with poor marks.

"Well good. That's fucking good, Vyv, because that means you can understand why this little snag is to be remedied immediately. _Now_." Mike was certainly getting louder now, "You come back with a few kilos of Spanish heroin, having delivered that fucking package to Barcelona by Friday or _you don't come back at all,_ you get me?"

Vyvyan's voice caught in his throat. He'd expected a scolding. He hadn't expected _that_.

" _Are we clear_?" Vyvyan wasn't used to hearing Mike yell, and it was a lot more intimidating than he'd thought it would be.

"Yes, Michael. As a bell."

"Good. Make it fucking quick."

Vyvyan expected to hear the slam of the receiver, but instead there was a sudden shuffling and some frenzied whispering, and he stayed on the line to try and hear it. Then a voice he hadn't expected, but was close to overjoyed to hear, came on the line.

"Hi," Rick sounded subdued, less enthusiastic than Vyvyan would have imagined he'd be.

"Hey," Vyvyan tried not to sound as rattled as he felt.

"I'm glad I got over here in time, I had to wrestle the phone away from Mike. Fascist."

Rick wasn't unenthusiastic, Vyvyan realized, he sounded worried and in need of reassurance. Considering the nature of the mission (what little Vyvyan had told him, anyway), he was bound to be worried. What Mike had just said had likely made it worse.

"Good thing you waited until he was finished," Vyvyan pretended he couldn't tell how scared Rick sounded - it helped him feel a bit more calm himself, "He's likely to hit you if you bother him in the next little bit. Stay away from him for a while."

Rick laughed softly, "I will, don't worry."

Vyvyan closed his eyes for a moment. He could picture him - smiling into the receiver, leaning against the wall with one shoulder, finger idly fidgeting with the phone cord. He tried to cement the image in his mind. Considering the things he was probably going to have to do to get that money back, he could use something pleasant to fall back on.

"Who's worried? I just don't want anybody smacking you around while I'm gone. That's my job."

Rick laughed out loud at that. "Where _are_ you? You sound like you're calling from the moon."

Vyvyan smiled, "You know I can't tell you that."

Rick sighed, "I know."

There was a long pause, and even though this call was likely doubling his hotel bill by the second, Vyvyan didn't mind how much time Rick was burning - part of him wished he could just sit there listening to Rick breathe forever.

"Vyvyan?" He said at last.

"Yeah?"

"…I miss you."

Vyvyan closed his eyes again. Of course he did. This was the longest they'd been apart since they'd got together. This would be the second night in a row they'd slept apart - the first time they'd slept apart at all in nearly a year. Still, the confession tied his stomach into further knots. The 'I miss you, too' played behind his lips, on the tip of his tongue. He bit it back - he really didn't need all this girly nonsense right now.

"Of course you do, you complete and utter girl," he said instead, "Don't bother, I'll be back soon."

" _How_ soon?"

Vyvyan sighed, "Soon. I've got to go, poof."

"I know."

Rick sounded so lonely and afraid. Vyvyan wanted so badly to reassure him. He didn't know why he couldn't seem to bring himself to.

"I'll see you later, all right?"

"All right, see you later Vyvyan, I love………I can't wait to see you. Bye."

"Bye."

Vyvyan set down the receiver and put his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and stood to survey the damage in the bathroom before heading down to meet up with Rory. He must have misheard. Fearful thinking, a bit of anxiety atop anxiety, that's what it had to be. It couldn't have been that Rick had just stopped himself from saying _that_. He couldn't even begin to deal with the possibility of it right now. There was far too much going on, his attention was needed elsewhere, he didn't need the distraction. Rick misspoke, or he'd misheard. That was all there was to it.

But if that _was_ all there was to it, why couldn't he stop thinking about it? And worse, so much worse - why couldn't he stop wishing he could have said it back?

*****

**[7:45 pm]**

"Eeh, you're right. This _will_ take some cleaning up."

Five of Romanov's associates (neither Vyvyan nor Rory asked any of their names - they really didn't care to know) surveyed the damage to the room, the bathroom, the bastard who'd shot them. There was blood everywhere, and the owner, while an ally, was insistent that they get it cleaned up as soon as possible. Luckily, Romanov's associates came prepared. They unpacked the bag they'd brought - a huge box of baking soda, another huge container of liquid soap, thick rubber gloves, masks, scrub brushes. They even brought what appeared to be a sleeping bag; Vyvyan figured they'd use it to smuggle the body out. One of them took Vyvyan aside while Rory and two others put the assassin's body in the bathtub and got to scrubbing.

"You're the leader?" he said, and Vyvyan sighed.

"Apparently," he said, "Unfortunately."

The man took a file out from under his arm, "You wanted information on Romanov. Here's everything we have. I can't tell you where he's headed, we're trying to find out ourselves. But I can tell you, another of our comrades has quite suddenly stopped returning calls. We suspect he may be working with him, possibly even harboring him. His name is Vasiliy Keslov, and he lives at this address." The man pulled a photo, and a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Vyvyan. Vyvyan took a quick look and slipped them into the file.

"Track Keslov down, find out what he knows. Kill him if you have to - we'll be following up tomorrow anyway."

Vyvyan nodded, set the file aside, and donned a pair of gloves.

"We've got all that soap, is the baking soda necessary?"

One of the men nodded, "Takes blood out of anything, you'd be surprised how effective it is."

Two of the others emerged from the bathroom, the sleeping bag full and sagging between them. Vyvyan wasn't quite sure how they'd got him to fit in there without his being seen at all. Then he considered the ways in which one could do such a thing and took a moment to imagine them. He regretted not having been able to help - dissection was always a favorite of his in school.

*****

**[11:54 pm]**

Vyvyan, Rory and Rostov crouched behind a dumpster, trying to get a better look while keeping themselves well-hid. (Rostov had suggested Nikki stay behind at their hotel - Vyvyan thought that was the first great idea he'd heard from the man.) Across the street stood the flat where Sergei's accomplice apparently lived. They only had to find out whether the rat bastard was still there.

"Are there any binoculars in there?" Vyvyan asked without looking behind him. He was referring to the provisions bag, helpfully lugged with them by Rostov himself. He slung it around from over his shoulder and rooted through it. He pulled out an object and placed into Vyvyan's waiting hand. "Thanks," Vyvyan took it and held it up before realizing what he was holding.

They were tiny, delicate, gold with filigree trim; a sturdy, but elegantly decorated handle attached to one side. He turned back to Rostov.

"Are these _opera glasses_?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, of course they are," Rostov said, as though he thought Vyvyan's surprise was especially odd.

"Of _course_ they are? What about binoculars? _Proper_ binoculars?"

"Opera glasses _are_ proper binoculars. And they're small enough to fit in the bag."

Vyvyan scowled at him. How had this bloke got himself a job as bodyguard to The Wolf's nephew anyway? It seemed he was the oddest, least competent, most insane person Vyvyan had ever met - and Vyvyan lived with _Mike_ , _Neil_ and _Rick_. He gave in, turned back around, and peered through the opera glasses.

He could see movement in the bloke's flat, but his blinds were closed. He reached behind him and pulled out the listening device he'd fashioned from various objects, including a radio, chewing gum, and an antenna. He pointed the antenna toward the flat and fiddled with some dials on the radio. A clear voice came through the speakers, talking in rushed, fearful Russian. Rostov listened a minute, then nodded - "It's Keslov all right - he's promising not to tell where…yes. He's talking to Sergei, there's no doubt."

Vyvyan turned the radio off and looked at the other two.

"Let's go pay our friend a visit, shall we?"

* * *

## Thursday

**[12:06 am]**

They got into the building with no trouble. Keslov wouldn't know them if he saw them, anyway. So they felt comfortable heading straight up to the door and knocking. Rostov stood at the door, Vyvyan directly behind him, out of sight, while Rory waited along the wall with the pistol drawn, just in case. No way were they going to allow themselves to be shot twice.

Rostov banged on the door. "Politsiya," he said, loudly enough to ensure the occupant would open the door, and his neighbors would keep their eyes and ears shut.

The door opened cautiously, and Rostov flashed a badge into it. It opened further and the three of them burst in. Rostov stayed by the door, blocking it as soon as Vyvyan and Rory were through. Rory kept Keslov subdued - easily recognized by his picture - while Vyvyan checked the rest of the flat for other occupants.

"We're clear," he said, limping back from the bedroom. Rory and Rostov had already got to work tying Vasiliy to a kitchen chair with rope from the provisions bag. Rostov had already laid the bag on the kitchen table, which sagged under its considerable weight. He pulled out more tools of the trade - the roll of cellophane, a roll of duct tape, and the small, silver vial of liquid nitrogen. Rory grinned viciously at their captive, who watched the three of them with terror. Rostov began duct-taping him to the chair, ensuring another layer of protection against escape. Vyvyan leaned against the kitchen wall, watching the scene calmly - externally. Internally, he was steeling himself against what he, what all three of them, were about to do. He sincerely hoped Keslov would talk easily - both because he was in a hurry, and because he really, _really_ didn't want to be there when the screaming started. He had his own reasons for his dislike of torture - his disdain for it. But he knew it would likely be necessary - he'd known it way back when he'd gone along with Mike's scheme in the first place. He just didn't like it - at all.

"I suppose you've guessed why we're here," Vyvyan said, having swallowed his disgust as much as he was going to, "And what we're about to ask."

Keslov shook his head, "No. No idea what you want," he said, in a thick, halting accent.

"Now, now," Rory said, unrolling and folding sheets of cellophane to reinforce them, "A lie's no way to make a good first impression. You just wasn't expectin' us 'cause you thought your little hit-man stunt would pay off. Well we're here, you fucking slimy bastard, and now we're fucking pissed off, so you'd better start tellin' the truth right quick."

"We know you know where Romanov is," Vyvyan said, "And we know you know what he's done with the money. And you're going to tell us, or there are going to be consequences."

"I don't know nothing," he glared at them defiantly, "You have the wrong man."

Rostov cracked his knuckles, "Bullshit," he said, smiling cordially, "How much did he promise you, Vasiliy? How much did you sell out your own men for? How much were you promised to betray _your own pakhan_ \- not to mention mine?"

Keslov paled, as though this was the first time he'd considered that he was a traitor - and what that meant. But he kept his mouth shut. Rostov's expression changed from friendly to sad. "Mne ochen' zhal'," he said, and though Vyvyan and Rory couldn't understand it, from his expression and inflection, it was probably something like, "I'm sorry." Then Rostov backhanded him - _hard_.

"Where's our fucking money?" Vyvyan said, not quite yelling yet.

"Fuck you," Vasiliy spat, and Rostov backhanded him again.

"You better answer him, mate," Rory said, his grin widening, "Or I'm gonna' have to raise the stakes here."

Keslov said nothing. Rory moved behind him and, quickly, wrapped the sheets of cellophane over Keslov's face. Keslov started struggling. He held it for five seconds…ten…his captive continued to struggle…twenty seconds…thirty…the struggling was becoming more subdued…forty…forty-five…he let go. Keslov's head lolled forward, barely conscious, but conscious nonetheless. Rostov backhanded him again - that woke him up.

"Where did you and Sergei stash our fucking money?" Now Vyvyan was yelling.

"Not…telling…English…bastards…nothing…"

"Wrong answer," Rory said, and suffocated him again.

And on it went, until Rostov, tiring of their lack of progress, picked up the small, silver vial and carefully unscrewed the top. Mist flowed from the vial as he took a pencil from his pocket and held it in front of him.

"Did you know liquid nitrogen boils at 77 degrees Kelvin? That's nearly 200 below zero, if you're counting. Do you know what boiling liquid nitrogen does to the things it touches? It's rather like magic."

He dipped the pencil into the vial. He waited a moment, then held the pencil up for Keslov to see.

"Wood-" he turned and smashed the pencil into the edge of the table. It shattered, the sound of impact and tiny, tinkling sounds on the linoleum making quite an impression on everyone. He turned back around and showed Vasiliy the jagged remains,"-to glass."

He set the pencil aside and approached, handing the vial with great care.

"Tip his head back," he ordered, and Rory complied. Keslov struggled and watched Rostov with fear. Rostov held the vial over his head, not tipping it at all just yet, just hovering it, at the ready, over Keslov's left eye. Keslov screwed his eyes shut, and Rory wrestled the left one back open.

"NYET!" Keslov yelled, "NYET NYET NYET!"

"Where is the money, Vasiliy?" Rostov said, patient, nearly kind. Keslov only continued his protests. Rostov began to tip the vial over.

Vyvyan closed his eyes. Keslov began to scream. The screaming died down, melting into sobs, and Vyvyan opened his eyes just in time to see Rory pull a potato peeler from the provisions bag.

He thought it was probably a good time to step out for a smoke.

*****

**[1:12 am]**

Rory and Rostov emerged from the building, carrying the provisions bag with them. They approached Vyvyan, who was leaning against the wall, having a smoke - he'd made it through half a pack waiting outside, and he'd probably only been out there 10 or 15 minutes.

"It's done," Rory said, "We got an address and everything. Romanov's got to be a pretty stupid crook, he's not even plannin' to leave the country 'till tomorrow. He'll have a nice surprise waitin' for him when he tries to leave."

Vyvyan nodded. He motioned up to the flat, "Is he dead?"

Rory shook his head, "Nah, we left him breathin'. But he's hurtin', that's for sure. His comrades are gonna' have a fun time with him tomorrow."

Rory didn't seem to notice Vyvyan's relief; he only grinned at him. Vyvyan didn't fault Rory for enjoying himself - we all have our little pleasures - he just couldn't understand the appeal of that particular past-time. He didn't even want to think about the reasons why it bothered him as much as it did - though the experience was making those reasons bounce around his mind, over and over. He shook his head to try and clear it as the three headed off to get a couple hours' sleep at Nikki and Rostov's hotel before heading out early to get the drop on Romanov.

Vyvyan didn't get any sleep at all, and trying to fall back on that pleasant image he'd cemented in his mind only seemed to make everything worse.

*****

**[8:50 am]**

The light bulb swung, bare and glaring, over Romanov's head, glistening off the fresh blood trickling through his thinning hair and down his face - courtesy of Rostov's having bashed him over the head. The rope, the same they'd tied Keslov with, kept him nice and still while Rory counted the money in the case on the table behind them. Vyvyan glared at him, arms crossed. This fucker. This fucking, traitorous bastard. He was the reason Vyvyan's thigh felt like it was exploding every time he took a step. The reason he and Rory had been popping penicillin like fucking candy since yesterday evening. The reason Vyvyan hadn't slept a fucking wink after being forced to torture information out of some poor sap who was likely already dead. _This fucking bastard_.

It didn't even matter that this was likely going to take half a bloody hour to work entirely; Vyvyan wasn't going to feel badly about this at all.

He reached into his doctor's bag and produced a hypodermic needle. He reached into the provisions bag and produced a small vial marked "cobra venom". He began loading the needle.

"It's all here," Rory said, closing up the case, "Thank Christ."

"Good," Vyvyan said, as he approached Romanov, seething anger and pain and exhaustion, "Then say goodnight, Sergei. It's going to be a bit of a rough one, I'm afraid."

Romanov chuckled at him, "You've got no idea, do you? You don't even know who I was headed to meet." He chuckled again, even as Vyvyan stuck the needle deep into his arm, "You're in for a big surprise, you know that?"

Vyvyan shrugged, "You're in for a slow, painful death. I'll take surprises as they come. Besides, you're full of shit."

"Believe that," he said, already starting to sweat, "Go on believing it. You'll be dead as me tomorrow."

"Somehow I doubt it," Vyvyan said calmly, as he left the room. He wasn't sure if he believed him, but he was damn sure going to try and find out what he was on about. Still, no reason to stay and watch the fucker die - he'd die all the same, and Vyvyan had seen enough torture this trip.

*****

**[11:10 am]**

Romanov's men had provided the plastic tubs, and even the sulfuric acid - but they still had to do their own body disposal. Vyvyan didn't really mind - chopping up a dead body was miles away from torturing a live one. And it had been a while since he'd really had an opportunity to use an axe in quite this way. He swung again, and grunted.

"This sternum's hard to get through," he muttered, to no-one in-particular.

"Here," Rostov took the axe from him, "Go at it from this angle - lengthwise. It'll split more easily than otherwise." He demonstrated. Vyvyan nodded, impressed. He was beginning to develop somewhat of a grudging respect for Rostov. He was clearly mad, but possibly less incompetent than Vyvyan had originally thought.

He finished up with the torso and helped Rostov bring the pieces over to the tubs, filled about two-thirds of the way with sulfuric acid. The three donned masks and thick rubber gloves, and began, carefully, adding pieces of Romonov to the acid bath. Each piece bubbled and smoked as it went in, and the smell was outrageous. They got the lids on the tubs when they were finished, made sure they were well-sealed, and set them aside. The warehouse they were in belonged to Romonov's former organization; the tubs would be collected by his former associates in the morning and disposed-of.

"What time have we got?" Vyvyan asked as they pulled off their protective gear.

Rostov checked his watch - a pocket watch, of all things, "Nearly one, Barcelona time. We can get it to them today, no problem. Plenty of time."

"All right then. Let's get the fuck out of Russia, shall we?"

*****

**[2:24 pm]**

The flight back was relatively quiet. Rostov read on his own, without interrupting himself or anyone else with endless pontification. He was reading a copy of _Show Boat_ , in fact, and had given the others strict instructions not to disturb him. ("When one reads an Edna Ferber novel," he'd said, "One requires intense concentration.") Rory was fiddling with an armband Rostov had given him to encourage healing. The band contained a large magnet supposedly able to, as Rostov put it, "Re-align the magnetic field in the body after trauma has disturbed its natural flow." Vyvyan sat next to Rory, staring out the window again, hoping Gabriel and his men wouldn't want a repeat of the last visit. He wasn't up to partying. He wanted to go home, take a long bath, and go to sleep, perhaps for a few days. Unlike the flight over, this time it was Nikki who wouldn't shut up. He seemed in even higher spirits than usual.

"All's well that ends well, eh chaps? I, for one, had quite a lovely time. A few snags here and there, but all-in-all a success, eh? Here, Martin, take the wheel as it were. I'd like to celebrate our victory with my new friends."

"I am reading, Nikolai," Rostov said with more than a hint of irritation, "You fly, I read, that's how this goes."

"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud, Martin, come up here and keep us steady. That's a good chap."

Rostov rolled his eyes, set his book down carefully so as to save his page, and went to take over pilot's duties. Vyvyan was surprised - who knew the mad bastard could fly? Nikki made his way to the back of the plane, fiddled with some things, clinked some glasses around, and came back with a tray of drinks - water glasses, filled nearly to the brim with champagne, from the look of it. He grinned at their tired, unamused expressions.

"Buck up, chaps, we've won! Here, have a celebratory glass of bubbly, I'd like to make a toast."

He shoved a glass each into their hands and held his aloft. The other two just held theirs, unenthusiastically.

"To the team - intrepid, dauntless, _relentless_ in pursuit of their goal. My hat's off to you, gentlemen. Well played. Well played, indeed."

Vyvyan and Rory downed their glasses immediately after Nikki had stopped talking. Nikki set his glass aside and pulled out his wallet. He took a slip of paper out of it and held it out for both of them to see.

"Do you see this? This savings bond was purchased by my great grandfather when I was born - it's as old as I am, and it's nearly of age," he chuckled at a joke nobody else found the least bit funny, "I intend to collect handsomely on it, in only a few short years. Well, it would be a handsome sum for many - for me, it's a drop in the very large, gold-plated bucket. I point this out for two reasons. One," he put the paper away, "To suggest that I really am very, incredibly, _disgustingly_ wealthy. And two," for some reason, as they looked up at him, Nikki was becoming somewhat…blurry…"To point out that, despite your best efforts, you're about to help me become even richer still. Thank you, gentlemen. Sincerely."

He walked away as Vyvyan and Rory began to sway in their seats. Vyvyan had enough time to think, 'Fuck, _Romanov was right_ ,' before the world went black.

*****

**[time unknown]**

Vyvyan dragged his eyelids open. It was relatively difficult. He wasn't quite sure what was going on. Had he been injured? He must have been, his insides hurt - a _lot_ \- and he couldn't move. No wait, he couldn't move because he was _tied up_. He was sitting, his hands tied behind his back, rope encircling his arms. His legs were also tied at the ankle, but even attempts to move them were met with resistance. He'd clearly been drugged - rather heavily if it was affecting him like this. He only wished he could remember what had lead to it - the last thing he could remember clearly was heading home, staring out the window of the plane. He struggled against the rope - nothing. His back was leaning against something. It was soft, and covered in cloth, and-

"What the fuck?" Rory slurred, and Vyvyan realized they were tied back to back. He looked down, still a bit fuzzy, and saw they'd been tied with the rope from the provisions bag; that thing was getting a lot of use this trip.

"That you, Vyv?" he nudged Vyvyan.

"Yeah," he answered with a bit of difficulty, "What the fuck happened?"

"Search me. Where are we?"

Vyvyan looked around. They appeared to be in some sort of storeroom or cellar. There was a brick wall to one side, the room stretching out into the darkness on the other, the only light streaming from a small window just above them. Shelving stood right in front of Vyvyan's face.

"You got shelves in front of you?" Vyvyan asked.

"Yep. Weird shite in 'em, too."

Vyvyan looked closer - Rory was right. This was clearly the storeroom of a madman. The shelf in front of him held a mishmash of random objects. A single bowling pin. Several deflated balloons. Something green in a jar that, if the label was to be believed, was a preserved barn own skeleton. A clown mask. A land mine, rusted and clearly ancient. This was definitely the strangest thing he'd experienced since he'd headed out on this trip. This stupid, ill-advised, disastrous trip - which seemed to have come to an end.

He could feel himself shaking. A wave of nausea crashed over him, and he had to resist the urge to vomit. His leg throbbed. He felt fainter still. He wasn't particularly optimistic about getting out of this one - between whatever the hell was coursing through his veins, and the hole in his thigh, he wasn't even particularly optimistic about trying to get to his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the image he'd stored away, tried to see him smiling softly into the phone. All he could come up with was the thing Rick had almost said when they'd hung up…the thing he couldn't even bring himself to think about directly, even now.

'I'm sorry,' he thought, resigned, 'I'm sorry I couldn't say it. I'm sorry I'll never get the chance.'

Rory was apparently feeling a bit less hopeless. "Look at all this," he croaked, "It's ridiculous! There's a pair of water skis over here painted up to look like…fuck, what _is_ that?" Vyvyan felt Rory lean forward, presumably to get a better look, "Fire? Waves? What sort of half-arsed-"

"It's a representation of the fire one can only experience gliding on the water, my dear boy," Nikki emerged from the shadows, "A simpleton like you couldn't possibly appreciate true artistry."

"OH GOD, SERIOUSLY?!" Vyvyan yelled, rage breaking through his weakened state, "IS _ANYBODY_ IN THIS BLOODY ORGANIZATION ON OUR FUCKING SIDE?!"

Nikki only smirked at them - a far more intelligent expression than anything he'd displayed the rest of the trip, "I'd hoped the pesticide I rather cleverly convinced you to drink would have killed you outright, but it appears you're more difficult to kill than anticipated. I used the entire bloody jar, you should have been vomiting blood and turning purple an hour ago. I should have known - you already managed to survive my little surprise at the hotel. It was Sergei's idea, you see - get rid of the two of you, and no one would be left to stop us from splitting the money and the opium, and vanishing into our new lives on our own private islands. That plan failed, of course - I underestimated you. I won't make the mistake again. I shall have to get rid of you the old-fashioned way."

He brandished an alarmingly large knife and approached them, slow and confident. He got within a few feet of them when the giant in a hockey mask appeared behind him and struck him on the head with something like a baton. He lurched forward, and strangely enough, his mustache - more accurately, his _fake_ mustache - fell off. He shrieked and grabbed for it, as the figure behind him reared back and struck again. This time Vyvyan caught the marble lion's head at the baton's tip, and everything made both more and less sense, simultaneously. Nikki crumpled to the ground, and Rostov took off the mask. He smiled at them.

"Apologies, gentlemen. I had to get that last bit on record, you see," he held up a small tape recorder, "The Wolf requires proof that his nephew has turned on him."

He knelt and picked up the knife Nikki had dropped. He cut the two free as they stared at him, confused and exhausted. Rory attempted to stand, but he managed to only get his palms on the floor before vomiting instead. Rostov nodded.

"I'd suggest as much of that as you can manage, gentlemen. When you've finished, I've got a concoction of my own invention for you to drink, it should mitigate the rest of the effects."

Vyvyan gazed up at him, bewildered and ill. Rostov made _potions_ too? He gave in to his nausea, and soon after, passed out again before he could sample Rostov's handiwork.

*****

**[time unknown]**

Vyvyan's eyes shot open - much more easily than the last time. He felt significantly better. There was a woolen blanket over him, and it was scratchy, but somehow comforting. He sat up - he was lying on the floor of the cellar, though in a different spot than where he'd passed out. Rory approached him, holding what appeared to be a galvanized tub.

"Finally," Rory said, "We was startin' to worry it was too late. Apparently he had to force it down both our throats, but I came out of it sooner. What a difference, yeah? That Rostov, he's some kinda' miracle worker. Come on, we've already got Nikki taken care of, we've just got to get this body gone. Haven't got any acid, but Rostov's managed a bucket of lye - it'll have to do."

Vyvyan got up, without difficulty. He really did feel quite a difference. He'd have to compare notes with Rostov once all this was over, it seemed they had at least one shared hobby. He crossed over to the other two, Rory setting up the disposal gear, Rostov neatly stacking body parts like cordwood. He watched Rostov for a while.

"I thought you were Nikki's bodyguard, Nikki was Volkov's nephew, isn't all this somewhat of a betrayal? Aren't we going to have to go into hiding or something after this?"

Rostov barked a laugh, "The Wolf has suspected Nikki of disloyalty for years, only he's never had any proof. I was hired to keep an eye on him years ago - posing as his bodyguard was a convenient way to get inside information about his behavior and whereabouts. You've got nothing to worry about, this is a huge favor to him. You'll be in his good books for years to come."

Vyvyan nodded slowly as he ingested all this information, then he frowned, "Hang on, if you _knew_ he was untrustworthy, did you know he'd turned on us before we even left England?"

Rostov nodded. Vyvyan looked shocked.

"Then why did you let him send a hit-man after us? Why did you let him bloody poison us?"

Rostov stopped what he was doing and watched Vyvyan carefully. He crossed his arms, "I had to be sure. If I _hadn't_ been able to build enough of a solid case before offing him, Volkov would have me killed faster than you could blink. I had to see what he was capable of. I've got proof of everything he's done this trip, the case I've built is airtight. Volkov will thank us for getting rid of him."

"We nearly bloody died!"

Rostov raised an eyebrow, "Couldn't be helped. I'm sure you're aware, Vyv, but death's a relatively common occupational hazard in this line of work."

Vyvyan bit back further protest - he was completely right. Completely, irritatingly right.

"Last question: Why the fuck did he wear a fake mustache?"

Rostov shrugged, "Who knows? He was fucking mad."

Vyvyan considered this for a moment. Then he shrugged and got to work helping Rory set up the bucket. The three of them filled the tub as fast as they could - this was becoming somewhat of a time crunch, it was already dark. It would take two hours to fly back to Spain, and they _had_ to get the cargo and money back down there before noon, Barcelona time. If sleep wasn't going to be an option, sleep wasn't going to be an option, but they'd at least like to try. They hoped it wouldn't take too long.

*****

**[11:42 pm]**

"This is taking too long," Vyvyan said, pacing beside the bucket, "It's barely even begun to dissolve. We can't just leave it like this, and we can't just wait for it to work."

"Why can't we leave it like this?" Rory said, yawning.

"The servants," Rostov said, "They're bound to find him eventually. More than one of them would be happy to call the pigs, not all of them know exactly who it is they're working for."

"Why don't we just, like…burn the house down?"

Vyvyan and Rostov looked at Rory like he was insane. Then their expressions turned thoughtful.

"You know…" Rostov said.

"Yeah…" Vyvyan said.

They all shrugged at each other.

"Why not?"

* * *

## Friday

**[1:25 am]**

They'd finally got the last of the servants out of the house. Nikki was thankfully a bachelor, there were no children or anything to consider. They'd covered nearly every surface of the cellar and first floor with gasoline. Rostov made especially sure the tape recorder with the necessary evidence was safely on the plane along with the money and opium. It was time.

Vyvyan grinned maniacally as he held the fire-starter, standing at the opened front door.

"Finally, I get to use the bloody hand grenade!"

He kissed it and laughed before pulling the pin and tossing it inside. The three ran like hell, Rostov running a bit slower than the other two, considering. Vyvyan turned just in time to see the blast knock out the row of windows surrounding the front door. He and Rory cheered as flame began licking the edges of the windows, and Rostov smiled, satisfied. Then they got to the plane as fast as they could - the sooner they could get this bloody job finished, the better.

They shared the avocado on the way over. It was actually pretty good.

*****

**[11:33 am]**

The front door opened, and Vyvyan limped through, tired, dirty, smelling of various chemicals, and scowling. Gabriel had been surprisingly accommodating, the delivery went without a hitch (at least it appeared the _Spaniards_ weren't falling all over themselves to betray them), he'd got the heroin delivered to Jerzei's office once he was back in town, he'd dropped Rory off at his own flat with a supply of painkillers and more penicillin, and he was finally, _finally_ home. He limped his way into the kitchen, where the other three sat just finishing up breakfast. Rick leapt up to meet him.

"Hi Vyvyan! Welcome back! How was your-"

Vyvyan cut him off by grabbing him, dipping him, and kissing him thoroughly. He released him and looked him in the eye.

"Don't ask. Don't ever, _ever_ ask."

He turned to Mike, who hadn't even lowered his newspaper. He still seemed to somehow know he was being watched.

"Hi Vyv. Job's done, I take it."

"Yes. Yes it is. The job is very well done. Do me a favor, Michael. Don't give me any more special, one-of-a-kind jobs for a while. That one was plenty for a dozen lifetimes." Vyvyan glared at his still-raised newspaper. Mike was such a fucking bastard, he didn't even have the courtesy to look the man he'd nearly sent to his death in the eye.

"Sure thing, Vyv. My pleasure."

Vyvyan grunted and half-stalked, half-limped his way upstairs, leaving Rick stunned, Neil confused and Mike still hiding behind his paper, beaming proudly.

* * *

##  [Money for Dope](http://tmbw.net/wiki/Money_For_Dope) by They Might Be Giants

Walking stick  
Lobster shell  
Cellophane  
Acid bath  
Legal pad  
Nitrogen  
Avocado  
Sleeping bag  
Rope

Money for dope

Russian hat  
Safety glass  
Jumping beans  
Hand grenade  
Almanac  
Butcher block  
Finger cymbals  
Liquid soap

Money for dope

Opera glasses  
Letter of introduction  
Rubber gloves  
Chewing gum  
Antenna  
Magic marker  
Edna Ferber novel  
Baking soda  
Cobra venom  
Poker caddy

Money for dope (Check!)  
Banjolin (Check!)  
A dozen oysters on the half-shell (Check!)  
Wooden leg (Check!)  
Galvanized tub (Check!)  
Money for dope

Aw (oh)

Ice cube tray (Check!)  
Gasoline (Check!)  
Savings bond (Check!)  
Laughing gas (Check!)  
Butter churn (Check!)  
Pesticide (Check!)  
Autograph from Julian Cope (Check! Check!)

Money for dope

Whipping cream (Check!)  
Table salt (Check!)  
Butter wedge (Check!)  
Chafing dish (Check!)  
Backing track (Check!)  
Slot machine (Check!)  
Hockey mask (Check!)  
Isotope (Check!)

Money for dope

Swimming goggles  
Penicillin  
Needle-nose pliers  
Lighter fluid  
Sarsaparilla  
Magnet  
Axe  
Woolen blanket  
1997 calendar  
Potato peeler

Money for dope (Check!)  
Water skis (Check!)  
Preserved barn owl skeleton (Check!)  
Fake mustache (Check!)  
Bucket of lye (Check!)  
Money for dope

Money for dope

Aw Aw

Money for dope (Check!)  
Banjolin (Check!)  
A dozen oysters on the half-shell (Check!)  
Wooden leg (Check!)  
Galvanized tub (Check!)  
Money for dope

Money for dope

Money for dope

**Author's Note:**

> So if you haven't guessed by reading the lyrics, the goal of this fic was to incorporate every single object listed in the song into the course of the dope run. It was significantly more difficult to do than I'd originally thought, thus why it took nearly a full three weeks before the last story's posting and this one. But I did manage it - go ahead and ctrl+f yourself, if you catch an object you think I've missed - I promise you, I haven't. XD
> 
> I know next to nothing about Russian, Russia, Barcelona, or Spain in general. All the Russian used in this fic comes directly from the serious academic resource known as Wikipedia, and my understanding of the Barcelona coastline comes entirely from Google maps. =P 
> 
> This fic is a bit of a palate cleanser - the next three will become increasingly serious as they make their way toward, well, Serious - the second-to-last fic in the series. Get ready for angst, folks! Yay!


End file.
